Glitz

by Elmore Leonard

  Vincent said, “Go ahead.”

  “You know Mrs. Donovan.”

  “I met her once.”

  “Made a point to meet her. Maybe score, catch her on an off day she forgot to tie her knees together. This’s in San Juan. Our story has taken us down to sunny Puerto Rico. True?”

  Vincent nodded. It was moving right along.

  “You’re there on a medical leave. Some dink shot you on the street.”

  It was moving faster than expected. “How’d you know that?”

  “Hey, I know what you prob’ly had for breakfast. Couple beers. You kidding me? I could see you coming all the way down the fucking street. Let’s get back to San Juan. You must have some cop friends there. Not incidentally the PR cops being world-class shakedown artists. You guys exchange notes? How to make it on the side? You could book Spade’s Isla Verde, hold a convention, bring in cops from all over . . . So what happened, let’s say the cops here notified the PR cops about little Iris, how she took the dive eighteen floors down to the street. Jesus. They’re looking for next-a-kin and they tell you about it down there and you say to yourself, hey, somebody fucked up. Since you prob’ly knew the type of work Iris was into . . . How’m I doing so far?”

  “Not bad.”

  “Not bad, your ass. That’s exactly how you got onto it. They put you in touch with some PRs up here, guys that know Atlantic City, how it works, what goes on in the dead a night. You get some names, some of the bad guys. You get lucky, see Benavides hanging around and you check him out with Miami. They give you his flight home, read his sheet to you—one of your pals in the DEA. You make a few assumptions and come running into my office, see if you can make out.”

  Vincent listened, nodding, entertained and amazed; the guy talking about making assumptions.

  “So what’d you put together?”

  “You were at the apartment,” Vincent said. “With Iris.”

  “When? Come on, gimme a date.”

  “The night before she was killed.”

  “The night before?” Jackie frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “You were there. So were these other people.”

  “Yeah, but how’s that worth anything? The night before may as well be the year before. What’s the difference? I mean even if there was a connection who’re you gonna get to say we were there?”

  Vincent didn’t answer.

  “Whoever was with her the night she was killed, that’s the guy you want to shake down, for Christ sake.”

  “Who do you think it was?”

  Jackie took a moment. He said, “I don’t believe this. What do you do down in Miami, you raid bingo parties? You been at this long, or what? You come in here to rip me off, now you’re asking my advice. As my dear friend Joan Rivers says, ‘Can we talk?’ I’ll give you the word, hotshot, tell you exactly where you stand here. You fuck with any those guys on your list you may as well kiss your ass goodbye, you’re done. You fuck with me—watch, I got this magic act I put on. You watching?”

  Vincent nodded. The guy looked so small, his round shoulders hunched behind the big desk, his array of stars smiling down at him.

  “I rub my balls and say the magic words, ‘Abracadabra, send in Jabara.’ And who appears?” Jackie looked toward the door to his office. “None other than Moosleh Hajim himself. Known to all his many fans as the Moose.”

  Vincent turned in his chair, starting to rise. He recognized DeLeon Johnson from newspaper photos, television interviews, saw the smile coming toward him, the Moose much bigger in real life, looking seven feet tall today in his nifty light-tan suit. Vincent was standing, ready to offer his hand. He saw the smile. He saw the forearm coming at him and was able to turn his head but that was all, it came at him so fast. That forearm slammed into him and he saw pink lights popping, went over the chair to land on his hands and knees, head ringing, stunned. He heard Jackie say, “Get him out a here . . . Hey, his bag too. Throw him out’n the street.” Vincent felt himself lifted, held upright. In a few moments he was able to walk. They went through the outer office to the hall and toward the bank of gold elevators by the reception desk, the Moose holding the canvas bag in one hand, Vincent in the other.

  As they waited for an elevator Vincent said, “I’m glad I’m not a quarterback,” closing and opening his eyes, trying to focus on the door’s bas-relief: a gold sunburst with a face in it. He said, “That’s what it’s like to get sacked, uh?”

  DeLeon said, “I wouldn’t know. I never been the sackee.”

  “Five times unassisted against the Lions, Eric Hipple. I was at that game.”

  DeLeon turned his head without moving his body, looked down his shoulder at Vincent, but didn’t say anything. A gold door opened. DeLeon looked at him again as they got on the elevator and Vincent said, “If there was a ref in there you would’ve gotten fifteen yards. You know that, don’t you?” Going down in the elevator Vincent asked him how his knee was. DeLeon said it was pretty good. He said, “I can’t kick.” Vincent said, “Good.”

  During his career in the NFL, defensive end for the Miami Dolphins, there were some quarterbacks DeLeon Johnson helped up after dumping them on their ass and there were some he left stretched out on the turf. The ones he helped up, some would give him a sad look as he pulled them to their feet, or shake their heads like to say, shit, why you picking on me today? There were one or two might comment with a straight face, ask him why he didn’t stay in Africa, man, play with real lions. This man, Vincent Mora, was like that. In the elevator he said he never missed a Dolphin home game. It seemed he didn’t take getting decked personally. They got to the lobby he said, “You know, what I planned to do was check in. But I never got to mention it.”

  “This hotel, you mean?”

  “Yeah, do some gambling.”

  Right here DeLeon saw Mrs. Donovan across the lobby by the gift shop, talking to a security man with a walkie.

  DeLeon said to Vincent, “Got a stake, huh? How much, twenty-five dollars?”

  “Let me have the bag,” Vincent said.

  “You keep all your spending money in this?”

  Vincent said, “Over here,” going to the bell captain’s counter, nobody there at the moment.

  Mrs. Donovan was coming this way now and not, DeLeon believed, by chance. The executive-floor receptionist had picked up her phone as they got to the elevators; would have called somebody who got hold of the lobby security man who then told Mrs. Donovan, her network keeping her informed. Was anything she didn’t know, it would surprise DeLeon.

  Here he was a witness, being sure of this fact, and she walked up and surprised the hell out of him. Not when she said, “Can I be of help?” But when this man Vincent gave her a big grin and she said, “Well, how are you? It’s so good to see you again.” Meaning it. She didn’t just know him; there was more to it:

  Vincent telling her, “I’ve been looking for you. I drove down to your house yesterday.”

  She telling him, “Yeah, Dominga said you stopped by. I’m sorry we missed you.” Then telling him she was terribly sorry about his friend, Iris. That was awful. Telling him she and Tommy had both spoken to the police several times and that the police didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

  The man Vincent said, “I talked to them too.”

  She said, “Oh? You did?” Little hesitation there, like she was half-expecting him to hit her with a surprise. DeLeon caught it. Saw her maybe relax a tiny bit as the man said, “They’re working on it.” The woman said it was a shame, young girl like that . . . This good-looking stylish woman, top of her class, could be sympathetic; she could scare the shit out of Jackie, emasculate her hubby; and she could act sweet as could be, giving Vincent a big-eyed look now. “It’s so nice to see you again. Where are you staying?”

  “I was thinking of coming here . . .”

  “Well, we’d love to have you.”

  “I don’t know if it’s okay.”

  Getting to it now. DeLeon seeing the man look at
him, about to lay it on, get snippy, sarcastic, treated bad by the help. But all he said, factual, was, “I’ve been asked to leave.”

  DeLeon got ready as Mrs. Donovan gave him an executive stare, serious business, man. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m suppose to escort this gentleman out. See, but now he tells me the reason he came in, he wants to do some business with the casino.”

  Lady acted patient, a little cool, pulled her nice blond hair away from her face; very queenly now.

  “Who asked Mr. Mora to leave?”

  “Was Mr. Garbo. Just now.”

  The man Vincent surprised him. He said, “Somebody must’ve told Mr. Garbo I was coming.” Said it with a little bit of a grin looking at Mrs. Donovan, like to see what she would have to say to that. Cat was sly. DeLeon liked him. Mrs. Donovan hung in, didn’t change her expression, frowning some, innocent; like she was thinking, My, who could it be? The man said, “I think Mr. Garbo, somehow he got the wrong idea about me.”

  DeLeon thinking, Misjudged you. Ten to one that’s what the little show-off Hymie did.

  Mrs. Donovan saying now, “Well, let’s not worry about Mr. Garbo. I’ll speak to him.”

  Meaning—DeLeon smiled just a little—she was going to cut his curly head off.

  Mrs. Donovan saying, “We’ll get you checked in. Okay? And I’ll see that you get a line of credit. I’m sure it can be arranged.”

  The man Vincent brought the canvas bag off the counter saying, “I don’t need credit, I brought some money with me. Right here.”

  Mrs. Donovan said, “Oh,” and nodded. “Fine.” Very polite. The gracious lady married to the man that owned the place. “How much would you like to deposit?”

  Vincent held the bag in front of him, looked in it, looked up. “I guess about twelve thousand.”

  Nothing to it, like he carried that much around. Beautiful. Man had style. Knew his timing, saying to the lady now, “Do I have to pay for the room or do I get comped?”

  Beautiful.

  And give Mrs. Donovan a hand. Cool, not blinking an eye. Coming right back to say, “For twelve thousand, Mr. Mora, you’re not in a room. You have a suite.”

  DeLeon said, “Here, let me take your bag, my man.”

  19

  * * *

  “IT’S LIKE YOU’RE IN A HOTEL in Star Trek,” Vincent said. “You know what I mean? It’s so modern you don’t know how to open anything or turn the lights on.”

  Dixie said, “They comped you to a suite? Come on.”

  “They like me,” Vincent said. “Or they want to keep an eye on me.”

  He sat with the telephone in a corner of the gold sectional sofa, wrapped in a king-size gold towel. Dixie Davies was home in Brigantine, in the kitchen.

  “Everything’s either green or gold.”

  “The color of money. Keep you reminded.”

  “With white walls, means they’re honest. I don’t know what the paintings mean. I’ve got a bar, stocked. I’ve got a phone in the bathroom. Three phones, one in each room. The bathtub, you could get four people in it. You walk down steps.”

  “I’m about to eat supper,” Dixie said. “You want to know what we’re having? Meatloaf.”

  “I got shot at,” Vincent said.

  There was a slight pause. “I believe it. Ricky?”

  “I was hoping, but it wasn’t.”

  “Say you got good reason to think it was and I’ll get a warrant. Give me a chance to go through his house.”

  Vincent told him about it and said, “Does that sound like those guys? It wasn’t set up right. One guy, takes a wild shot and runs. He didn’t even have a driver . . . You might check stolen vehicles for a yellow Monte Carlo at least five years old.”

  “The hotel report it, the shooting?”

  “Nobody heard a thing. I ran outside in my underwear, got my gun, I’m coming back in a drunk is standing there on the sidewalk looking at me, weaving. You know what he said?”

  “Atlantic City, three o’clock in the morning,” Dixie said, “Resorts International across the street, he told you don’t do it, it ain’t worth it. Think of your wife and kids.”

  “He said, ‘You should a bet your underwear. You never know when your luck’ll change.’ I checked out, I said I want to pay for the window too. They said, what window? Miami Beach, a hundred old ladies would’ve called it in, seen the whole thing.”

  “I’d still like to pick up Ricky,” Dixie said.

  “You could keep an eye on him,” Vincent said. “He’s supposed to meet me tomorrow, but it wouldn’t surprise me he’s gonna go see Frank Cingoro first. You know what I mean? Call Frank up and if there’s no answer he could be lying on the floor. The way those guys are doing each other—and I bet Ricky thinks he’s got every reason. Would you like to see that?”

  Dixie said, “Would I like to see it, I’d buy tickets. You kidding? Jesus, bring Ricky up for doing the Ching and send his ass to Trenton. I’m getting excited thinking about it.”

  “The thing is,” Vincent said, “I’m pretty sure none of those people had anything to do with Iris.”

  “I have to agree with you,” Dixie said. “On the one hand it’s no help with the girl, but on the other . . . You never know, do you?”

  “Wonderful things can happen,” Vincent said, “when you plant seeds of distrust in a garden of assholes.”

  “Wait, I want to write that down.”

  “I talked to Jackie Garbo. Very entertaining guy. I think he used to get beat up a lot when he was a kid. He’s on shaky ground, running games outside the casino. You can tell he’s nervous and you could use it to grab him by the balls. Except he doesn’t know anything. I mean about Iris. I’m pretty sure.” Vincent said, “This’s some town. You got a lot going.”

  “You ever want to work here,” Dixie said, “I could probably fix it.”

  “Leave my suite, my phones? . . . How about the autopsy report?”

  “Be another week or so.”

  “What’s the hurry, uh?”

  “You want to complain, call Newark.”

  “In the meantime,” Vincent said, “ask Jimmy Dunne about a delivery, some sandwiches . . .”

  “From the White House Sub Shop. We checked,” Dixie said, “they don’t have a record of it. We talked to Jimmy again, he said it must’ve been from some other place.”

  “He describe the delivery boy?”

  “White male, thirties, blond hair, suede jacket. Could be anybody.”

  When Linda came Vincent made drinks and they got in the bathtub and played.

  “You realize,” he said, “you could get away with this for at least a month? Go from hotel to hotel, deposit the same twelve grand?” Linda smiling as she listened. “Soon as they find out you’re not gonna spend it you move on. Do all the hotels here and then go out to Las Vegas.”

  “You’re in the wrong business,” Linda said. “You should be a crook. You are a crook.”

  “I may gamble, if I have time.”

  “When you’re not taking baths.”

  She got out of the tub to make fresh drinks and light cigarettes. Vincent watched her—waited on by a good-looking naked woman he felt at home with in a $500-a-day hotel suite. She wasn’t the least bit self-conscious, looking at the bath oils and lotions on the marble vanity. She was the first woman he had ever seen without tan lines, her white skin making her appear more genuinely naked and appealing to him. He said, “What’re you doing? Get back in here.”

  “I have to go to work soon,” Linda said. “I’m opening tonight, kid, at Bally’s.” She threw her arms out and struck a pose. “Linda Moon, Now Appearing . . .”

  “You sure are. But you didn’t tell me.”

  She let her arms drop. “That’s what I’m doing, telling you. Why’re you so surprised?”

  “I thought it was down the road, a couple weeks off if you got it.”

  “I had to get it. Vincent, I work, I don’t sit around.”

  “But right no
w . . .” He hesitated. “Whoever it was last night, he finds out you’re at Bally’s . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  She stood at the edge of the recessed tub, hands on round white hips, looking down at him.

  “Vincent, I spent half the day with the entertainment director . . . Where do you think I’ve been?”

  “I knew where you were.” He was having trouble, looking up, keeping his eyes on her face.

  “Yeah, but did you really care?”

  “What’re you mad at?”

  “I got the entertainment guy—I wouldn’t leave his office till he said, okay, I can play anything I want, my music, Vincent . . . Look at me. Quit staring at my crotch. I played a rehearsal set and he loved it—as much as those guys can love anything, but he said go ahead. That’s the thing, I can play what I want . . . Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, look at me. Do you know what this means?”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “I’ve been working my ass off for a shot like this, Bally’s Park Place, my charts, and you want me to hide in a hotel room. You want to protect me, Vincent, then come sit in the audience.”

  “What time are you on?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “Okay. We’ll come back here after.”

  “And take another bath,” Linda said.

  The phone rang.

  He met Nancy Donovan in the lounge: dark and quiet in here between sets. They’d have a drink first and then she would take him into the casino, show him around.

  She told him if he didn’t like his rooms he could choose another suite. Or if there was anything at all he wanted . . . He said no, it was fine; green and gold were his high school colors. He liked the bathtub a lot; he said you could practically swim in it, do all kinds of things. He said he liked the view, he liked to watch the ocean when it was breaking in with a high surf. They covered the weather and beaches in New Jersey, Florida and Puerto Rico.